I want to know Dr. Cocchi’s and your opinion of two new French books, if you have seen them.  One is Montesquieu’s “Esprit des Loix;” which I think the best book that ever was written—­at least I never learned half so much from all I ever read.  There is )s much wit as useful knowledge.  He is said to have hurt his reputation by it in France, which I can conceive, for it is almost the interest of every body there that can understand it to decry it.  The other, far inferior, but entertaining,, is Hainault’s “Abrege Chronologique de l’Histoire de France.”  It is very amusing, though very full of Frenchisms; and though an abridgment, often so minute as to tell you when the Quinzevingts first wore flower-de-luces on their shoulders:  but there are several little circumstances that give one an idea of the manners of old time, like Dr. Cocchi’s treatise on the old rate of expenses.

There has been nothing particular in Parliament — all our conversation has turned on the Westminster election, on which, after a vast struggle, Lord Trentham had the majority.  Then came on the scrutiny:  after a week’s squabbling on the right of election, the High-bailiff declared what he would take to be the right.  They are now proceeding to disqualify votes on that foot; but as his decision could not possibly please both sides, I fear it will come to us at last.

Lord Pembroke(87) died last night:  he had been at the Bridge Committee,(88) in the morning, where, according to custom, he fell into an outrageous passion; as my Lord Chesterfield told him, that ever since the pier sunk he has constantly been damming and sinking.  The watermen say to-day, that now the great pier (peer) is quite gone.  Charles Stanhope carried him home in his chariot; he desired the coachman to drive gently, for he could not avoid those passions; and afterwards, between shame and his asthma, he always felt daggers, and should certainly one day or other die in one of those fits.  Arundel,(89) his great friend and relation, came to him soon after:  he repeated the conversation, and said, he did not know but he might die by night.  “God bless you!  If I see you no more, take this as my last farewell!” He died in his chair at seven o’clock.  He certainly is a public loss; for he was public-spirited and inflexibly honest, though prejudice and passion were so predominant in him that honesty had not fair play, whenever he had been set upon any point that had been given him for right.  In his lawsuit with my Lady Portland he was scurrilously indecent, though to a woman; and so blasphemous at tennis, that the present primate of Ireland(90) was forced to leave off playing with him.  Last year he went near to destroy post-chaises, on a quarrel with the postmaster at Hounslow, who, as he told the Bishop of Chichester, had an hundred devils and Jesuits in his belly.  In short, he was one of the lucky English madmen who get people to say, that whatever extravagance they commit “Oh, it is his way.”  He